Reflections Upon Names Beginning With W and M
by exxmachina
Summary: She could have danced all night, but a name beginning with W prompts her to leave to spare them both the sorrow. OFC. Oneshot, but one of many set in the same timeline.


She saw him across the room, and the sight made her stomach lurch uncomfortably and made her thin fingers clutch tightly around the stem of her champagne-glass. Tall, red-haired, a wide sun-burnt face smattered with freckles. Smiling widely as he spoke to his friends. An unfortunate name, wasn't it? Weazle, Weasel, Weasly. Weasley, there it was. Now even more than before she wanted to put down her glass, pull up her skirts and run from here. All around her people were chatting excitedly, the other probationers in her year spread throughout the room in their pretty robes, with long hair piled high and Lucia had never felt so forlorn in her life as she did in her light-blue robe with her silver-blonde hair twisted and coiled into a heavy bun at the back of her head. Determined, she downed the last of her champagne and grimaced at the sour aftertaste. At Beauxbatons they would have never served champagne as bad as this, mais alors. The English Wizards, whom Lucia was slowly growing accustomed to thinking of herself as part of, were known for their appalling taste in wines. Amongst other things. She wrinkled her nose at her own thoughts; if there was one thing she probably shouldn't be too outspoken of it was prejudice.

She slid past a group of girls, probationers from St. Mungo's like her, towards the exit and was nearly there when a strong hand closed around her upper arm. "And where do you think you're going, lovely?" asked Abigail, as close as Lucia had to a friend in this strange country, in her strange Northern cant so very different from the lilting French of her childhood, and clearly cut and precisely enunciated English her parents spoke. "Uh. Home," Lucia responded, her eyes darting nervously from Abigail to the red-haired wizard who was talking so animatedly with his friends. Which one was he, she wondered? Surely not the one married to Fleur Delacour, whom she'd known superficially at Beauxbatons as one of the older and intimidating girls. "Oh no, don't go!" Abigail pleaded and Lucia was touched to see that her eyes too expressed what her mouth pronounced her to be feeling. She smiled vaguely. "I'm just tired." It was half a truth, anyway. "Oh but please," pressed Abigail. "It's early yet. You should have some more champagne, or butterbeer, and come and talk to us. And later there's dancing!" Ah, dancing. Well, she loved dancing. But she doubted that anyone here would want to take her for a swing. Keeping mum about that she smiled again with ends of her mouth tugging characteristically downwards. "I really can't, Abigail. My feet are killing me after today." But there's a charm for that, her own voice argued in her head. She pushed it away. If she went down that road there was an ointment or a charm or an incantation for every ailment which plauged her, but none for the real issue at hand. But she deigned to admit that to herself, and she'd never speak a word of it to Abigail who had so generously accepted Lucia into her life, without questions about her last name or her silver-haired appearance, and if there was one thing Lucia didn't want it was to remind Abigail that she was the child of one Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy. The English pronunciation still rang false in her ears, accustomed as she had been to call herself Malfoi. Dieus d'Amour, how she missed France and Beauxbatons where people had known her, where people spoke beautiful French and where noboy raised an eyebrow when she walked into her room with her silver-hair, dubious lastname and odd magical powers that no-one but the trained and experienced Mediwitches at St. Mungo's understood.

She smiled once more at Abigail and felt herself unexpectedly drawn into a warm hug. "See you tomorrow, then," Abigail said with a smile that brimmed over into her voice and Lucia wished once more she was more like her joyful friend. She cast a final glance over her shoulder as she made her way to the door that led to the Apparation point in the hallway. He was still there, talking to his friends but this time one of them suddenly seemed to notice her and he leaned into the Weasley-man, making him turn, making him catch Lucia's glance and suddenly her cheeks felt aflame and she all but ran out the door and Apparated and then she was in her own room at the Probationer's Ward. She was breathing heavily and examining her own appearance in the mirror, she noted that she was bright-red, her translucent skin quite overwhelmed by the blood that had rushed into her cheeks, and she blushed even harder when she realised that he had seen her, he had noted her interest in him. At best he hadn't gotten a good enough look at her to tell from which tree she had fallen. At worst he had.

As she sunk onto her bed, still in her festive robes, her stomach sank and her throat tightened. It was bound to be his sister that had nearly been killed by her Aunt Lestrange. She'd never actually met her aunt, but she'd heard horrifying things about her. Mostly from Draco, under the promise that if he didn't tell her she'd hex him into the next dimension. He knew she was good for her word, and he didn't care much for that knowledge. But told her he had. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at the memory, but faded quickly enough. And his brother. His brother had died, his sister nearly. She'd made Draco share with her the memories of that battle her parents wouldn't speak of. Her mouth went dry as she remembered them. How they must hate us, she though. How they must all hate all of us. And that was the problem, wasn't it, she reflected sadly. She so wanted to be liked.


End file.
